Precipice
by thaliaarche
Summary: Figure skater Ciel Phantomhive arrives at his first Olympics, amidst rumors of favoritism and eating disorders and Olympic Village bacchanalia. He plots and schemes, clawing his way towards the podium, obsessively chasing victory over a certain Sebastian Michaelis.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Updates should occur roughly once a week and will vary considerably in size._

* * *

The quad salchow gets 13.6. A double toe jump gets 1.3. Performed in combination, they get . . .

Lulled by the numbers, Ciel's chest is soon rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The words and digits fall away, his mind slipping in the haze of early sleep, detaching from reality.

The half-dream rises unbidden— a faceless man, tall, slender, skimming backwards over ice and throwing himself high into one whirling jump, then another. He is clad in bands of jewels that circle his chest, like ribs with starved space in between. His shirt is pure white, stretching down his arms into soft, long-fingered gloves. The cloth is sewn with feathers that fade from white to grey at his waist, and below there are only fluttering black trousers and black leather skates. Thunder cracks from heaven, and the skater is falling, breaking, spinning, curled close to the ground. He is poetic, lyrical. A fallen angel.

The scene shifts, turning inside out, and Ciel is watching his own free skate from Worlds, all brusque athleticism and cold, hard lines, high-scoring jumps perfunctorily connected by footwork. Though now asleep, his brain immediately begins scoring, efficiently totaling up the technical points won by the difficulty of the attempted elements. As for the accompanying component score— which accounts for subjective qualities like "flow" and "style" and "interpretation"— he doesn't bother with it.

His subconscious flits among his other routines, scrutinizing, breaking down his every motion and judging it, tallying all through the night. Eight hours later, when Ciel Phantomhive wakes from his first night at the Olympic Village, his mind has only once paused its restless calculations.

These are his first Games. They are his game. He will get his prize.


	2. Chapter 2

Ciel is lounging in the cafeteria, making eyes at Elizabeth Midford. He's read all about her, of course. He knows her prattling interviews, spent gushing over her new curling irons or the sequins on her latest designer skating costume. Her in-your-face girlishness works to her advantage, Ciel suspects, since judges like seeing that sort of thing in a skater— a female skater, that is. Moreover, Ciel knows that there's resolve sharp as a skate's blade beneath her facade; her sheer drive has made her and her brother serious contenders for the podium in pairs' ice dancing.

Ciel also knows that, should things move quickly with Elizabeth, his room will be free this evening, since his supposed roommate, Soma, has sworn to never spend the night there ("16.6 is just average, and I don't settle for average, so with any luck at all you'll never see my face here again").

Soma was referring, of course, to the 100,000 condoms ordered for this and every Olympics— 16.6 for each of the 6,000 athletes.

For some reason— he supposes it's the numbers— Ciel suddenly thinks about his routines again, and the medal that he will get if he has to kill for it. He thinks of his competitors— a talented bunch, though he hates to admit it. He faces serious challenges on all sides . . .

And yet, at some point along the way, he started focusing solely on one competitor— Sebastian Michaelis. American. Fairly young, a teenager like Ciel, but with an extra three years of experience, an extra three years of competitions and championships and medals. By now, he's placed well at practically every major competition short of the Olympics. His skating— soft and emotional, more properly labelled "dancing"— couldn't be more different from Ciel's. Most irritatingly, plenty of people say Sebastian has an excellent chance at a medal— a much better chance than him.

And so, when preparing for these Games, Ciel picked Sebastian as his archenemy.

Was he serious about having an "archenemy"? Entirely, and not at all. Ciel's only seen the guy in person a few times, and they haven't talked for more than two minutes in total. But that doesn't matter, because Sebastian himself doesn't matter— Ciel simply needs the idea of a rival. His natural competitiveness requires a target, no matter how arbitrarily chosen. Someone to hate, someone to beat, someone to take down and destroy . . .

Elizabeth starts smiling back, snapping Ciel from his daydreams of gore and annihilation. He waggles his eyebrows at her and then looks down at his second slice of devil's food cake, taking a bite, sensuously licking the fork clean for her benefit— and for his too, if he's being honest. Really, what's the point of being as fit as an Olympian if you can't enjoy some extra dessert?

Now Elizabeth's giggling, and he's about to wave her over when a squawk rings in his ears.

"Ciel Phantomhive!"

He startles and turns to find his coach, Grell Sutcliffe, looming behind him, face almost matching her flame-red hair.

"Quit with the junk food, and get your butt to the rink presto! I've been calling you for ages . . ."

Rolling his eyes, he puts down the fork and starts trudging towards the garbage can to throw away his remaining cake. Halfway there, he sees _him—_ Sebastian, black hair longer, pale skin whiter than Ciel remembered. He's with the other American male's singles skater, Ronald Knox, both getting food. Sebastian's plate looks rather empty to Ciel— just salad with some chunks of chicken— but, then again, most plates look empty to Ciel . . .

Then he realizes Sebastian is glancing at _him_ with a sharp, hungry look in his eyes, and Ciel feels that warm flare of resentment, right on cue. He continues out, now hurrying to practice.


	3. Chapter 3

_Heads-up: This story was published on AO3 with the tags "Eating Disorders," "Mental Health Issues," and "Implied/Referenced Homophobia." At least one of those tags starts coming into play this chapter._

* * *

"So I had an interesting conversation today," Vincent Phantomhive— Ciel's father and de facto manager— says while scooping up a dumpling. "One of the American skating officials came up to me and thanked you. He says you and Knox are setting a good example for boys back in the U.S. who might want to get into skating."

"What about Sebastian?" his mother, Rachel Phantomhive, asks, giving Ciel another serving of noodles before he even has to ask. It's a tradition for them, going out to dinner the night before a competition's first event.

Vincent sighs. "Well, Sebastian just isn't right for that sort of thing . . ."

"What do you mean?" she presses. "He's a beautiful skater . . ."

"Exactly," Ciel cuts in with a snort. "America wants— hell, everyone wants boys to remember that figure skaters are actually athletes. You want kids to join because it's a sport, and a tough one at that. Not just because of glittery shirts."

"Right," Vincent nods. "And if you get anywhere near the podium, Ciel, I swear advertisers will be eating you up. Razors, cologne, Swiss watches, deodorant— if a man could need it, you'll be selling it."

"And god forbid we miss a chance to monetize our son," Rachel teases, sending them all into chuckles. When it comes to Ciel's career, Vincent is overzealous, and Rachel can be, too. Ciel loves them for it.

The next morning, as Ciel skates onto the ice for the team competition, he looks around, scanning the crowd for his parents. He sees them only a few rows up, waving the Union Jack, cheering for him and for Queen and Country, and he flashes them a smile. Then he makes his way to the center of the rink and tilts his head down, waiting for his music to start.

And he is off, cranking out element after element. Triple axel, perfect. Quad toe, slightly unsteady— only a +1 for Grade of Execution, he calculates, even as he speeds into his next move. Triple lutz and triple toe in combination, perfect . . .

The scores are high, two points better than what he had predicted himself. The crowd is cheering, Grell is practically suffocating him with her hug, and Ciel is satisfied. While he can't win a team medal— the rest of the British skaters are not nearly as strong as he is— he has made his mark. He is gearing for a medal in the singles competition, and now the judges and the whole world know it.

The next competitor takes the ice— Ronald Knox, chosen as his country's representative for the male's singles sub-event, because, yes, America lacks confidence in Sebastian. Ciel smirks.

He wonders whether Sebastian watched his routine.

* * *

 _Note to the ice-skating nerds- I took a creative license and shortened the team competition, so each skater/pair of skaters only skates a long program (as opposed to both a long and a short program, as happened in Sochi). My headcanon is that a whole bunch of skaters protested that skating two programs in the team competition would tire them out for the subsequent individual competition, compelling organizers to reduce the demands of team competition._


	4. Chapter 4

At breakfast the next morning, Elizabeth comes right over and sits down next to Ciel, gushing about yesterday's performance. He laughs off the compliments— "No, no, I don't know if I have a chance at the podium. there's just so many other talented skaters here . . ."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sebastian crossing the cafeteria, eyes fixed down at another plate of salad. Finny— another skater in the male's singles competition, so unintimidating that Ciel's never once Googled him— is simultaneously skipping backwards, and . . .

CRASH!

The whole cafeteria stops to stare at two ice-skaters— champions of the most elegant sport at these Games— as they collide, trip on each other and tumble smack to the floor. Finny starts apologizing, and Sebastian is frozen, mouth open, stunned, covered in salad. Seeing his rival, this so-called paragon of artistry flat on his back, Ciel just shakes his head as the heat of resentment floods his face again and . . .

Damn. That's not resentment.

His calculations never accounted for a Sebastian who was anything other than inhumanly graceful, a Sebastian who could fall flat in a cafeteria, getting arugula and kale in his hair. Ciel's calculations never accounted for this new, decidedly not hostile feeling that his own brain is now producing, at the sight of his rival's unexpected, adorable bemusement. God _damn_ it, he feels like he's already won an Olympic medal.

Ciel turns back to Elizabeth, reminding himself that, right now, he only wants her. Her, and an actual medal. And all he wants from Sebastian Michaelis is unconditional surrender . . .


	5. Chapter 5

Heading to the rink for practice, Ciel immediately senses that something's off. Coaches and skaters huddle in corners, whispering and stealing looks at each other. When he finds Grell, she's glaring down at her iPhone.

"What's up?"

"Damn journalists. They did a 'special report' for the Olympics."

"What about?"

"It's an exposé on eating disorders in figure skating, names and all, and you _know_ the judges are reading it . . . Ugh, there's a whole paragraph on Ran Mao— as if she needed more of a disadvantage!"

"But isn't it true, that there's eating disorders? I mean, one time when I got dessert at Worlds, I felt the entire room staring me down . . ."

"I remember that time, and you took enough ice cream for four, darling. The clientele of a McDonald's would have stared you down," Grell chuckles, then gasps upon scrolling further. "Oh, god. I need to talk to Will."

Ciel flinches. "William Spears? Sebastian's coach?"

"Yeah," Grell frowns. "Any chance you know Sebastian?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and she shakes her head. "Never mind, let's worry about you. Start warming up."


	6. Chapter 6

Ciel is alone that night, hunched over his phone, googling "Sebastian Michaelis."

He's done this multiple times in the past— one can't allow an archenemy to go entirely unstalked— yet he now sees something new in every interview, every quote, every clip. Though his skating is dramatic, even exuberant, Sebastian is quiet, reserved, off-puttingly cool away from the ice. He's straight-faced after every victory, expression downright stony whenever things go his way.

When he falls, when he loses, he smiles. Post-exposé, one of the top results is a video where, smiling, Sebastian remarked that "food is optional." Ciel had dismissed the line as harmless sarcasm, but now he sees the smirk and doubts.

Sebastian's body language is not particularly effeminate— though Ciel, as a fairly masculine queer man, knows better than to draw too many conclusions from that. No, Sebastian off-ice does not seem effeminate to Ciel, simply . . . small. He has perfected the art of seeming servile, casting his eyes down and keeping still, fading into backgrounds. Ciel had dismissed this is as false modesty, and now he doubts.

He sees the rumors on the fan forums, the same rumors that have kept him publicly in the closet after all this time. They say Sebastian is weak, that America has wasted a place at the Olympics that should have gone to someone who jumped faster, higher, stronger— a real athlete.

Ciel feels his face burning with a new sort of heat, one he almost never experiences. Guilt.


	7. Chapter 7

Ciel has perfected his "distracted teenager" act. He stares down at his phone and fakes a laugh, pretending to text at lightning-speed, thumbs pounding the screen. Really, he is typing gibberish into his Notes app and eavesdropping on Grell, who is consulting with Sebastian's coach.

"So now his father can't come to the Games because of business," William murmurs.

"What?" Grell gives a short, disbelieving laugh. "When did this happen?"

"Ash— Sebastian's father— cancelled the flights a few days ago . . ."

"And when did Sebastian tell you this?"

"Just yesterday, but . . ."

"He's missing his son's routine at the Olympics because of _business_. Will," Grell sighs. "Do you actually buy that?"

He adjusts his spectacles and shrugs. "Sebastian's convincing."

"And let me guess, he's also got you convinced that he has no hint of an eating disorder . . ."

"He swears he eats enough, and he's too damn OCD for bulimia."

"There was so much B.S. in that sentence, I can't even parse it . . ."

"He says he's fine!"

"And have you considered," Grell snaps, "that you might have another self-destructive master liar on your hands, and you're just too damn emotionally constipated to notice?"

William opens his mouth to bark at her, then closes it and leans back, letting himself fall against the wall behind him. "I need a drink," he mutters, almost too low for Ciel to hear.

"Later," Grell shoos him away, though Ciel can hear her smile. "Go clean up Sebastian's quad toe."

Ciel collapses on his bed in the evening, yet his mind refuses to rest. Though the male's singles competition looms tomorrow, not even reciting the skating judges' handbook can calm him. He tosses, turns and thinks of Sebastian, finally nodding off just before dawn.


	8. Chapter 8

The male's singles competition kicks off with the short program. The fans bounce and scream and brandish flags, packed tight around the rink, their squealing no doubt echoed by audiences worldwide.

A few hours later, the cheers have collapsed into muttering, and people are straggling from the stadium before the skating is even officially done. Ciel storms from the rink as well.

The order of the short programs was randomly chosen, and Ciel skated early in the night— too early. The music began before his sleepy brain knew it, and he spent his routine scrambling after the beat instead of soaring over it, his half-awake brain subtracting point after point from his predicted component score. Worn-out halfway through the program, he made an executive decision to remove one rotation from his quad and settle for a triple loop, only to realize upon landing that he had just gutted the most valuable element of his program. He finished, sweaty and out-of-breath, and saw Grell facepalming at the edge of the rink.

Ronald Knox went on soon after, attempted his signature quad flip, and fell. Then came Finny, who tripped on a spin sequence, collapsed on three jumps and crashed into the side of the rink.

Aleister Chambers, Canada's reigning star, took the ice in a purple spandex suit and stumbled repeatedly, only to face further deductions for the multiple sequins and feathers that whirled from his outfit onto the ice. His costume would have been that American official's worst nightmare, Ciel mused, had the press not had cameras trained on Chambers' second wife and third mistress, who were glaring at each other from opposite sides of the audience.

Eventually, Ciel realized that his own error-ridden program would be one of the night's best. His fear at losing the medal subsided, replaced by an unfamiliar sympathy for his competitors, and he cringed at seeing skater after skater brought low by mistakes. It may have been the Olympics, but that didn't mean it wasn't a trainwreck.

Of the serious medal contenders, Sebastian skated last. He glided onto the rink, his wine-red shirt rippling, an elfin spark in his autumn-leaf eyes.

 _"Round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel,  
Never ending or beginning, on an ever-spinning reel . . ."_

Sebastian traced circles on the ice with a painter's precision, drifting, spinning. His jumps emerged naturally from the song's own emotion, and every step, every movement, every flicker of his eyes flowed with the music's phrasing. Once, he tipped too far forward when landing a quad toe, touching one hand to the ice, yet he never broke character, straightening and sweeping onwards before Ciel even fully registered the mistake.

Ciel had memorized this routine, tracking its evolution through far too many Youtube clips, but he watched as if for the first time, losing himself in the looping, lyrical choreography. Still, part of him waited for Sebastian to trip and tumble. The curse on the night promised that no one could leave the ice without embarrassing themselves at least once . . .

Then the program was over, without a single major error, and while the score was lower than Ciel expected— perhaps the quad had been sloppier than it seemed— it was still high, putting Sebastian in second place, just behind Ronald and two places ahead of him.

Face burning once again, Ciel stalked from the rink, whole body taut with rage. He cursed Sebastian. Then he switched to cursing himself, for thinking of Sebastian as anything but a threat to be exterminated.

* * *

 _Author's Note: The song referenced is "Windmills of Your Mind." As a heads-up, the next update is also going to be short, but I promise it's action-packed!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: To the guest commenter who was curious, nope, I'm not in the world of ice skating myself. Far from it_ — _the last time I skated, it took me thirty minutes just to get over to the opposite side of the rink_ _! Also, you may be interested to know that, in this AU, there is currently no international-level medal drought for American male singles skaters, thanks to the combined prowess of Sebastian and Ronald. My headcanon is that they've both medaled at Worlds at least once._

* * *

Ciel rages at himself until he falls into a heavy, sound sleep punctuated by dreams of judging his own skating. He wakes rested, this time around.

"Things will go better today," Rachel assures him when he calls his parents the next afternoon.

"They can't go worse!" Vincent adds in sing-song, somewhere in the background. Ciel hears Rachel smack him, chuckles, and heads off to the rink.

The male's singles competition culminates in today's free skates— routines that are almost twice as long and more than twice as grueling as yesterday's short programs. Before the contest itself begins, the skaters crowd onto the rink and warm up, practicing snatches of their choreography. They whizz across the ice like a handful of marbles on an oiled floor— uncoordinated and utterly random.

Ciel and Sebastian, as the only left-footed skaters, are skating against the current, compounding the chaos. Ciel passes his rival, but he keeps his eyes forward and continues his routine. More than ever, he intends to beat Sebastian, and he won't waste warm-up time mooning after him, or pitying him, or drooling over the gorgeousness of his skating.

Ciel sharpens his focus, churning one perfect jump after another— though the warmup is not officially scored, he knows judges form first impressions here. And so he does not see Finny flinging himself into a pitiful excuse for a quad, mistiming the spins, still rotating when he hits the ground, twisting, flailing, falling right into . . . Sebastian.

Ciel turns just in time to see Sebastian go sprawling, left leg twisted unnaturally beneath him.


	10. Chapter 10

Finny leaves immediately for the hospital, due to a suspected concussion. Sebastian's head is unharmed, but the same cannot be said of his dominant leg.

He was scheduled to perform at the very end of the night— the skaters who scored best in the short program always tend to skate their long programs later— and so he has more time to announce his withdrawal. The withdrawal is inevitable, Ciel thinks, because, in this condition, Sebastian cannot possibly skate . . .

Grell checks her iPhone and groans. "Sebastian convinced Will he can skate."

Ciel stares at her. "On that leg? Won't that hurt?"

"It'll hurt like hell, and probably do extra damage, too. It's such a _stupid_ idea."

"It's what I'd do," Ciel murmurs.

Grell pretends not to hear. "You'll be up soon. Get your skates on."

He fumbles with the laces— in front of camera crews, to add insult to injury. He's paying no attention to his actual skates, instead formulating a brand-new strategy for approaching his skating, running through a season's worth of calculations in minutes.

"You're skating to a love song," Grell had lectured him so many months ago, when he was first learning this routine. "The implications of that would be obvious to anyone with a sense of drama, but I'll spell it out for you."

As he glides onto the rink, Ciel shuts off the calculator in his brain and thinks instead of Sebastian.

"First, the song goes through the honeymoon period, where the silly boy goes around thinking everything about her is perfect."

Sebastian, who was simply supposed to be perfect, an ideal for Ciel to rend and conquer.

"Then tragedy strikes and shatters the illusions."

Sebastian, who lies with his smiles and keeps too many secrets and falls in cafeterias.

"But, after lots of emotional labor, he begins to appreciate her on a deeper level."

Sebastian, whose skating is a dance he clearly adores.

"And finally, it grows into true love. They see each other as they really are."

Sebastian, who is about to risk his leg for a chance at a medal.

For the first time, Ciel finds himself interpreting the music with his skating. He slows down where the song dictates. He lets the elements flow one into the other. He's got _style_. He might have even thrown some facial expressions in there.

The crowd applauds appreciatively, though they're not ecstatic over his performance. Ciel understands that, because even his current warmth of feeling cannot fully make up for a years-long lack of artistry. But the technical score is what he had always expected, and the component score is higher, placing him in the lead. Grell grins at him, remarking, "We might just make a drama queen out of you yet."


	11. Chapter 11

Ciel and Grell settle in to watch Ronald Knox, the third-to-last competitor. His program is preposterously ambitious, filled with more quad jumps than Ciel would want to try in a whole day, and, for the first time this season, he actually pulls them all off. He crashes through multiple world records, inspiring a standing ovation and without a doubt winning the gold for America. Now in second, Ciel is grudgingly impressed, but Grell simply sniffs at his heavy metal music. "It sounds like synchronized lawnmowers," she protests.

Next, Aleister Chambers, once again completely feathered, skates a clean program, but Ciel considers the technical elements rather insubstantial. The judges agree, and they just barely put Chambers in third, still far behind Ciel.

Sebastian appears at last, wearing a sequined white shirt with fluttering sleeves— it used to be skin-tight, Ciel remembers. As he skates out, he clearly favors his right leg, perfunctorily waving to the audience while he scans the ice for any detritus that might have fallen from Chambers' costume. Finally, he takes his place, and Ciel holds his breath without realizing it . . .

Sebastian skates like a man possessed, carving the ice with his dance. He whirls, limbs stretched to extremes like a marionette's, achieving positions that even flexible female skaters would be hard-pressed to reach. He spins low to the ground with impossible speed, folding himself small, a frenzied blur of motion. He rises, soaring into jumps that are grand and loose and free, lingering in low landings, leg thrown back.

His skating is strong, and he hides the hurt well. But Ciel winces as Sebastian slams his full weight onto an injured limb, again and again and again, etching his pain into the ice. Despite the stage makeup that skaters wear, he is too pale under the stadium lights. His eyes are too bright, and his cheekbones too sharp.

But his dance is transcendent.

At long last, Sebastian leaves the ice, lopsided, placing his weight entirely on his right leg, while the audience cheers wildly and rains down countless flowers and stuffed animals upon the rink. He wears a faintly vicious, pain-drunk smirk.

Yet Ciel is grinning out of pure joy. His mental calculator tells him that Sebastian's score should be close his own, that he might lose the silver medal. But he doesn't care, because it will be worth it if he can see a true smile on Sebastian's face— there's a hint of one there already, as Sebastian takes off his skates and heads to the kiss-and-cry, hugging a stuffed toy kitten that someone's handed him, waiting for the judges to declare him a medalist . . .

Fallen angel.

Ciel realizes one heartbeat early, because he saw it in a dream just days ago— Johnny Weir, the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, the "Fallen Angel" free skate. Black and white and gorgeous grey, Weir had skated with years of single-minded athletic training, softened by feathered lyricism and glittering musicality. He was underscored and kicked from the podium, though whether because of international politics or his own personal "flamboyance," nobody ever knew.

Ciel hears the audience murmuring, then booing the judges. William throws his hands in the air and starts shouting at someone. Chambers is off somewhere, voice swooping loud, thanking heaven at the top of his lungs for giving him the bronze medal.

Sebastian sways for a moment, then steadies, not even able to paste on a smile. His face pales, blank as a plaster death mask, except for those eyes that redden and glimmer.

* * *

 _Author's Note- Ah, Johnny Weir. The main reason why I was inspired to actually get this story written in the first place._

 _Admittedly, I'm not a figure skating expert, so I can't fully explicate the ways that politics and phobia may or may not have caused Weir's "Fallen Angel" skate to be underscored at Vancouver. The situation's too complicated for me to entirely understand, so if you happen to be a figure skating fan who *doesn't* believe he was underscored, please just gloss over that little paragraph. I'm not looking for a fight!_

 _But to anyone who hasn't watched that routine, you should, because it's amazing and heartbreaking. And it's precisely what Ciel was dreaming about in the first chapter (nope, I didn't just make him hallucinate random skating angels. there was more justification there)._

 _If you want something to cheer you up afterwards, watch Weir's Poker Face skate, optimized to make fans hyperventilate._


	12. Chapter 12

Ciel drifts through the medal ceremony. He answers reporters' questions, explaining away his lack of clarity as post-victory endorphins. He poses with the silver medal. He realizes that feigning smiles is exhausting.

His parents insist on taking him and Grell out for a late dinner that stretches into the morning. When he comes back, the exhaustion hits, and he falls into a dreamless sleep, the medal still around his neck.

He wakes up only a few hours later and considers falling back asleep. Then he remembers Sebastian— Sebastian, whom he still hasn't talked to for more than two minutes total— and drags himself out of bed. He heads first to the Village clinic, since Sebastian would surely get his leg looked at after the competition, only to find that he had been discharged late last night.

And so Ciel stumbles to the dorm where he heard the American ice skating team had taken up residence. He asks for Sebastian's door, finds it, and knocks.

Silence, then a strange thump.

"Ron isn't here," Sebastian says, voice low and muffled.

"I want you," Ciel replies— and damn, that's more honest than he was planning to be . . . "Actually."

"Give me a few minutes."

"Okay." Now, Ciel notices the weight around his neck, and, realizing that _dear god_ that's not good for a first impression, at least not in this one case, he yanks off his medal and hides it in his pocket just in time. Sebastian opens the door, wearing a black hoodie and navy shorts and a leg brace. His face is perfectly blank, without even the tears from yesterday.

"What can I do for you?" He asks in an empty monotone.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Ciel curses himself again, because he's better than this, he could have planned out this whole conversation ahead of time. Really, the only way he could have been more insensitive is if he said, "Hi, I've been stalking you for about a year now"—

"Sure."

Ciel sighs with relief.


	13. Chapter 13

At the cafeteria, Ciel pretends not to notice how Sebastian hesitates at the buffet, before ultimately choosing a regular salad, and a fruit salad as well. He himself refrains from taking a cinnamon bun, tearing his eyes from the tantalizing gobs of frosting.

They sit in silence, as Ciel crafts a perfect icebreaker question about how one's favorite music genres might affect their skating style, if at all. He is about to ask it when Sebastian remarks, "You look like you didn't get much sleep."

"I could say the same about you." He cringes inwardly, realizing that he really should go find a dating manual and study it like it's the International Skating Union's handbook.

"Were you partying with Ron?" Sebastian asks.

"Uh, no," Ciel shrugs. "I haven't actually been to a party here yet."

"Well, strictly speaking, I'm not sure he went to a party either," he muses. "He ran off somewhere with one of the officials. She won shooting at the last Summer Games and then joined the organizers this time around . . . She used to be a big fan of mine, I hear."

"Used to be?"

"Well, Ron got a lot more attractive last night," Sebastian murmurs. "Not that I care."

"What do you not care about?"

"Hm?"

"The official or the medal?"

Sebastian stares at his fruit salad.

"For what it's worth," Ciel continues after a moment, "I think you should have been on that podium. I did a quick check online, and there's actually a number of people saying that Canada and America fixed the scores. Chambers got his bronze, and your people have a better shot at ladies', maybe . . ."

"And practically repeat the Salt Lake City scandal?" he snorts. "They wouldn't dare."

"Well," Ciel shrugs, "it could still be something political. America already had the gold, and maybe the judges decided to spread the medals to other countries . . ."

"Or maybe I didn't skate well enough," Sebastian interrupts.

"I don't buy it . . . ."

"I do," he raises his eyebrows, "because the best other explanation . . ." He takes a deep breath. "The best other explanation is that it was the article, and the sequins, and the rumors, and the goddamn artistic choreography. That's what my dad thinks lost America its medal."

"Your dad said that?" Ciel gapes.

"No," Sebastian mutters. "I stayed up all night waiting for him to say it, but he didn't do me the courtesy of calling."

Silence.

Ciel makes an executive decision. "How's the leg?"

"They say it should mostly heal, provided I stay off the ice for a few weeks," Sebastian gives a harsh laugh. "No Olympic skating gala for me, and Worlds is probably off the table, too . . . Why do you want to know?"

"Because we're going dancing, that's why."

"What?" Sebastian intones, a strange, joyless smirk twitching at his lips.

Ciel watches carefully. "Some of the ice dancers are giving a big ballroom lesson tomorrow night. They say it's for international relation-building, but I think they're just showing off . . . This other skater I've been seeing, she—" Ciel sees that frightened, fake smile melt as soon as he mentions Elizabeth's gender— "she asked me to go with her. Why don't you come along?"


	14. Chapter 14

Ciel checks his phone when Sebastian shows up at the dance— he's exactly on time. Ciel himself would have been late, but he came early in hopes of observing Sebastian Michaelis, the human being, as much as possible.

As the room fills up, Sebastian sticks to the walls, looking for someone to dance with, yet always glancing away whenever a potential male partner looks at him. Ciel leaves to greet Lizzie when she arrives, but he circles back to Sebastian. They chat some more, now discussing the results of the far less dramatic ladies' competition, their conversation rapidly growing easier.

Just minutes later, Grell bounds into the room in bright red sweats and heads straight for Ciel and Sebastian. "Ciel, darling, won't you dance with me? William was supposed to be my partner, but he's still in my room sleeping off the alcohol . . ."

Ciel pretends to gag, and Sebastian's jaw actually drops at this revelation.

"Oh, come on, you prudes— we're in the Olympic Village!" Grell swats them both. "A lot worse than that happened last night, by the sounds from our roof . . ."

"Ciel has a partner," Sebastian cuts her off, "but I'd be delighted to dance with you."

And so they dance. Ciel is an absolute klutz at every ballroom style he tries, only saved by Elizabeth's grace and experience— he's distracted, of course, still observing Sebastian over her shoulder. Meanwhile, Grell is watching Ciel; as he stomps on Elizabeth's foot for the third time, his coach rolls her eyes and whispers a no doubt cutting comment about his dancing "ability" into Sebastian's ear. Sebastian looks over at Ciel, then, and bursts out laughing.

Ciel's about to be indignant, when he realizes . . . Sebastian is laughing, out of neither pain nor fear but genuine amusement, and that terrible blankness is finally gone from his face.

Finally, Ciel feels like he's won the medal.

* * *

 _Author's Note- I've been drafting a sequel. Heck, I've been drafting three sequels! But I'm not guaranteeing that they'll ever get published, sadly . . . Last time I promised to continue a series, it didn't exactly work out :-/_

 _Thanks sooooo much for reading!_


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